


let me be your fortress

by wincestgoddess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Caring Sam Winchester, Dialogue Heavy, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vulnerable Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestgoddess/pseuds/wincestgoddess
Summary: Injured after a hunt, Dean must lean on someoneSam lends a hand.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 170





	let me be your fortress

“Breathe.”

“I… am breathing.”

“You’re wheezing. Just… just breathe, okay? Slowly.”

“They dead?”

“Silver bullet through the heart.”

“Fucking hate werewolves.”

“I know. No, don’t---Dean, you _can’t_ walk on your own!”

“Sure I… sure I can.”

All it takes is one wrong step, one leg trembling, one full body shiver and Dean’s falling. Except his face never connects with the sidewalk because Sam’s suddenly right there, wrapping strong arms around him once again and tightening his grip.

Frown lines marr Sam’s usually bright face. It’s not a good look on him. Dean thinks Sammy should be smiling at all times. Not worrying his lower lip between his teeth (however hot it may be) and sparing concerned glances at his chest.

“Let me get you to the car. You can act like a stubborn asshole all you want once we make it there.”

“Your ass is stubborn.”

“Not your greatest comeback.”

“Cut me some slack, I’m dying here.”

“ _Don’t.”_

“...Sam.”

“Just----just don’t, Dean. Lean on me. We’re almost there.”

“I’m not dying, you know?”

“I know, it’d take more than one werewolf to take out the great Dean Winchester.”

“Where we going? Bobby’s? Sam, you can’t stitch up a wound this bad.”

There’s a significant pause. Dean looks around at his surroundings, startles slightly when he realizes he’s in the backseat. They made it to Baby. Her leather’s cool and refreshing under his burning skin, only the layer of his jacket separating them. 

A gentle hand brushes some hair out of his eyes, slicks it back. His hair’s wet. When did that happen? Sam’s fingers are shining red. Blood mixed with sweat. 

“Dean.... Bobby’s dead. Fuck, you have a concussion.”

Oh. _Oh, right._ Dick Roman. Leviathans. Right. Sam shouldn’t look that concerned, though. Just a couple of details that happened to slip his mind. He is not dying over here. Almost makes Dean wanna roll his eyes. Almost. It wouldn’t help Sam’s concern.

“You still can’t stitch up a wound this deep.”

“Yes, I can.”

“I didn’t teach you that.”

“Bobby did.”

“What? When?”

“...After you died. After the hellhounds. Your chest was a mess. Didn’t want to bury you like that. You’d have hated it.”

Hellhounds. Even the word is enough to set the needles of panic; pricking his skin as a hand wraps around his throat. But it’s not Sam’s. It’s Alastair’s. It’s some faceless demon. It’s whichever demon’s getting his turn at the great, hated hunter. 

Sam realizes what he’s done too late. His panicked gaze catches Dean’s but his brother seems to be looking right through him, green eyes glassy and unfocused. 

He’s breathing now alright, except his breaths are still ragged, his chest is rising up and down too fast for Sam’s liking. Dean’s on the verge of hyperventilating. 

“Hey, Dean. No. Listen to me. You’re safe, okay? I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have… here.”

“N---no, oh god. Please.”

“No, focus on _me._ Not them. Whoever they are, they’re not real. I’m real. We’re in your car, just the two of us. It’s always been the two of us. Sam and Dean.”

A garbled sound of distress seems to be Sam’s only answer and it pains him. It tears up his insides. Dean’s chest isn’t the only one alight and on fire anymore. 

“Dean!”

“...Sammy?”

“That’s right. Here, feel that? That’s my heartbeat. And---yeah,” a choked laugh, “that’s my hair, I knew you loved the length.”

“...Need a haircut…”

“I’ll get a haircut tomorrow if you promise to take it easy. Let me take care of you. Please.”

“Will you really cut it?”

“Dean.”

“Okay, I’ll… fuck, you’re bossy. But fine.”

“Good. I don’t want you to fall asleep on the ride back, you’ve got a nasty concussion. I want you to breathe, steady. And keep pressure on that.”

“It’s not that bad, right? I need, I need you to tell me that. I’m not going back, am I? Sammy?”

“No. You’re _never_ going back. I swear.”

A shaky exhale is followed by a nod. Both men pretend they do not notice the tears filling green eyes. Only Sam pretends he doesn't feel the lone tear that slides down his cheek.

Dean wipes it away. Dean is always there to wipe them away, take care of the pain.

Sam turns around but a hand grips his wrist, stopping him.

“Dean, I need to drive us back, man. Gotta stitch your chest.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Dean…”

“Sammy. Just one minute. You said it’s not that bad.”

“One minute. We… I promise, it’s not bad. I just don’t want you staining the seats.”

Tender hands cup Dean’s face and Sam sighs when his brother turns his head, presses his nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling Sam’s scent. Musk and blood. 

A kiss is pressed to the top of big brother’s head. 

“Let me take care of you.”

It’s a whispered plea. It’s the fine tremor in his brother’s voice that does him in. Breaks down the last of his resistance, of his stubbornness.

Even tough hunters need to be taken care of once in a blue moon.

“...Okay, Sammy.”


End file.
